In this time I have been burnt by two churches I served faithfully, rejected by three churches I applied to, and turned down an offer to another church because when they didn’t think I was watching I saw who they really were. And to be honest, I didn’t want to be burnt or let down again.
I have also started a church in my backyard. And I have quit that church more times than I can count. For over two years I have struggled to get it off the ground and a day doesn’t go by where I feel as if I am failing.
I often daydream about being somewhere else, doing anything but this. Yet here I am. Some call me committed. Others believe I should be committed. The anxiety that causes my heart to pound in my head deafens their critiques.
Still I am my harshest critic. My best worst enemy. Yet, for some unexplainable reason my faith is stronger than ever. My hope remains unsinkable. And eyes remain open so my heart can see, feel, and simply be love. And not just any kind of love, but a part of a greater, more mysterious divine sensation I constantly fail to adequate or fully describe.
This is what keeps my heart beating when I pray for it to stop. This is what gets me out of bed, to move through this bleak and broken world to help at least one person a day feel the love I feel. This is what gets me to write out words of confession. This is what pushes me to look beyond my fear, my anxiety, and my inabilities so that I might be able to leap into the uncomfortable and dark unknown.
Some call it faith. Others call it foolishness. I call it my life. And I am grateful (even if I am often miserable) to share every heartbeat with you.